


Ménage à Quatre

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: The Odalisque Timestamps [13]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Ageplay, Anal Sex, Gangbang, Group Sex, M/M, Marking, Oral Sex, Voyeurism, dubcon, graphic murder, noncon, odalisque verse, vignettes of sex and violence verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 08:53:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3404630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Aren’t you going to make introductions?” asks Will, innocence in his voice that doesn’t carry into his eyes, narrowed just perceptibly.</i>
</p><p>  <i>“No,” Hannibal responds, no less a smile as he smooths Will’s hair back and steps towards the men again. “This is the boy I told you all about,” he tells them, head tilted and a tenor in his voice akin to when he’s introducing plates of an exorbitant dinner, or discussing wine selections for an evening. “I’m certain you’ll find his company most satisfying, and by all means, indulge yourselves how you will.” A pause, and his smile widens. “I do not need him returned in the same condition.”</i></p><p>Upping the game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ménage à Quatre

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly this is entirely self-indulgent - as is, we suppose, this entire verse.
> 
> Enjoy irresponsibly, folks!

Will wakes alone and it doesn’t matter. Most likely Hannibal is off island, seeking company and conversation, perhaps more exotic foods to make, more wine that is from the ancient days to store in their bursting cellar. Whatever the reason, he will be home soon enough, and Will will greet him by wrapping all his limbs around him and riding him into the couch.

For now, though, he goes downstairs, shorts and the ratty sweater, the thinnest, most comfortable thing for the early, hot Greek mornings. He rubs his over-long sleeves over his eyes and sets the coffee maker going, stifling a yawn and surveying the weather through the huge glass doors.

Clear day. Clear ocean. Clear and clean and perfect to do nothing at all in. Will thinks he’ll read, today, pull an old classic from the top-most shelves in their study and drape himself on the lounge chair in the sun.

He hears the door open and smiles, maybe he’d not gone off island after all, a stroll on the beach maybe or something else, and he’s about to make good on his own mental image from the morning before he hears that Hannibal is not alone. Two, perhaps three others with him, and Will frowns, wondering if they’re about to have company that won’t end up on the table.

Either way it would be rude not to greet them, he would know hell for it later, well enough.

Coffee cradled in his hands, sleeves over them to keep the heat away from his palms, Will makes his way from the kitchen and sends a smile to Hannibal, allowing quick eyes to take in the men with him, a brief flick of his tongue against his lower lip before he bites it, raises his eyebrows.

“Morning?”

“Good morning,” Hannibal greets him. The men speak in another language, not Greek, something further east than that. Will gathers up bits of Slavic root but not enough to resolve what they’re discussing.

Albanian, maybe.

He looks towards Hannibal, who comes towards him with a kiss against his brow, and escorts Will onward with a hand against the small of his back. Will goes, through the entryway, the sitting room, to the entertaining room, rarely used. “I thought you might still be asleep,” Hannibal tells him.

“Just got up,” answers Will, though his eyes don’t leave the three men who follow and watch Will just as readily. Goosebumps skitter across his skin, hair raising in a warning he hasn’t felt in a very long time - not since Baltimore. Not since before Hannibal, when certain types of men would find him.

Hannibal catches his fingers beneath Will’s chin and turns him back to steal a soft, slow kiss from the sweet boy, coffee steaming in his hands. “Aren’t you going to make introductions?” asks Will, innocence in his voice that doesn’t carry into his eyes, narrowed just perceptibly.

“No,” Hannibal responds, no less a smile as he smooths Will’s hair back and steps towards the men again. “This is the boy I told you all about,” he tells them, head tilted and a tenor in his voice akin to when he’s introducing plates of an exorbitant dinner, or discussing wine selections for an evening. “I’m certain you’ll find his company most satisfying, and by all means, indulge yourselves how you will.” A pause, and his smile widens. “I do not need him returned in the same condition.”

Will’s eyes narrow again and his lips part, confused. They usually discuss killings they make together, usually plan an evening for it, a day if they want to drag the fun out, but it’s never been spontaneous, and it has never been more than one man at a time. Will’s eyes follow Hannibal as he moves, turns to look at him, voiceless in his suggestion that this is entirely serious, and that Will is about to either enjoy this or exhaust himself struggling from it.

He bites his lip again, harder, and draws his brows, an easy enough act and one that hides the way his heart speeds, hammers against his throat and hums in his ears. He swallows, ducks his head to regard his coffee, that he was going to enjoy outside in the sun with a book - not anymore. His toes curl against the cool tile and he steps back, just enough to show weakness, enough to have the men hone in on him as others have before.

Yes, this is certainly a memory and a reminder Will had not needed today.

He turns to set his mug aside, so it won’t spill, won’t burn him if he drops it. He tugs his sleeves down and fidgets with them, making himself appear smaller, weaker, and enough to recoup, to take in how his muscles feel, how sharp his mind is so early in the morning. He makes a quiet sound, like a laugh, and drags one hand through his hair.

“He didn’t say we’d have company,” Will admits. “I would have dressed nicer…”

For a moment, all seem uncertain as to what happens next. One of the men looks to Hannibal, and asks a question with a nod towards Will. Hannibal answers and while the language isn’t clear to Will, he can pick up the answer to the man’s question. “Sixteen,” Hannibal tells the man, who laughs his delight.

It is Albanian, Will can now discern, eyes twitching narrower as he wonders when Hannibal got that one under his belt.

Braver than the rest, the man who asked his age steps closer to Will, to touch his chin and lift it, as Hannibal did just moments before. “You don’t need to dress in anything at all,” he tells Will. “This very nice man is going to let us have fun with you, little one.”

Will’s brows draw further, he rubs one hand over his arm and swallows, looks askance at Hannibal who merely lifts an eyebrow. To the men watching, it seems like an exchange that they expected: a kept boy, innocent and naive, entirely unused to something like this, and well worth the effort to keep him in this room and have him. To Hannibal the expression Will sends him is livid, and it takes a lot for him not to grin in response.

The boy will be angry, he will take this only as long as he wants to before turning vicious, a monster clawing and tearing and biting his way free.

He will be beautiful.

“All - all of you?” Will manages. It’s easier to play stupid. He tries to think of the last time he had had more than one partner for a night. He remembers, and it was unpleasant. But, he supposes, he didn’t know how to work his way from a headlock then. Perhaps this will be more enjoyable.

“All of them,” answers Hannibal, in a kind tone that’s as false as the reassuring smile he offers. He is, in fact, viciously delighted at the little game he’s decided they’re going to play today. The men he found attempting to solicit and bought their trust with tales of his own experiences - it hardly matters that they know, since they’re not going to be leaving anyway. All three are strong, likely employed working outdoors - construction, or fishing.

The most forward of them twists his hand through Will’s hair, in a gesture meant to be consoling. One of the other two appears more nervous than his compatriots, and Hannibal watches him with interest as he follows last to stand nearer Will. He’ll try to run, as soon as Will has had enough, and he could be faster than he looks.

Hannibal runs his hand across his mouth to wipe away his smile, settling onto the arm of an armchair to take up Will’s coffee and sip it.

“You’ve been with men before, haven’t you?” asks the ringleader of the group, his tone syrupy and patronizing. He releases Will’s hair to rub his back through the sweater, drifting down further to curl around his ass.

Will tenses, steps forward again, out of the grip and closer, instead, to another of the men, who tilts his head to regard Will beneath him. Will considers Hannibal’s deliberate adjustment of his age, considers the crude offer that the men just have him, considers that perhaps money was involved, that perhaps coercion and something sick and boiling within Hannibal to see this play out.

If anything, Will has never disappointed in putting on a show.

“Not that way,” he shakes his head, wraps his arms around himself only to feel his sleeves tugged gently until his arms unwind again as he’s touched.

“The nice man there hasn’t had you?”

Will shakes his head, finding himself slipping one arm through a sleeve as it’s pulled taut, his other as well as the second is held the same way. He covers himself beneath the sweater and swallows again.

“He’s kind, he… he said I could sleep in bed and have something to eat… he touched me but...” he whines softly as the sweater is pulled off of him, leaving him in his little shorts - his own, these, not of Hannibal’s determined making - and nothing else. “It was always soft just… just fingers and rubbing and -” Will tilts his head against the hand that comes to touch his hair, tugging it and stroking it as one would a pet, he bites his lip as others move his arms to his sides again, holding them down as his nipples are tweaked, touched and rubbed until they peak and Will shivers.

In truth, it’s far from unpleasant, and the game itself is entirely novel, but Will hates how he has been entirely undermined in this scenario, caught blind and unaware. He looks at Hannibal again and determines that for as long as he feels like it, as long as he is not bored, he will enjoy this enough to have the man remember.

“You like it.” It’s not a question, though Will shakes his head adamantly anyway, twisting his hands limply where they’re held.

The sweater is taken from Will’s hand, and tossed to the floor. From where he sits, little more than a backdrop now, Hannibal takes it up gently and spreads it across his folded legs, coffee in his other hand. Part of the agreement, of course, being that he would be allowed to watch. The men had hardly minded the request, and Hannibal is faded comfortably into the background of their attention, though once in a while he catches Will’s eyes, and arches a brow as if in challenge.

“You’ve never had it before?” Hands across his backside, squeezing, pressing fingertips beneath the carefully cut hem of his shorts and finding - Will could curse for it - nothing beneath but skin. “You’ll like it,” one of the men assures Will, before a kiss is sealed against his mouth.

Hands against his chest and stomach, his thighs, over his back from one of the men who steps before to kiss Will’s shoulder and shove rough against his ass. Fingers work free the snug button of his shorts, but even as Will tries to clutch for them, his wrists are caught and held gently behind him.

“We’ll make sure you like it.”

“I don’t,” Will wriggles, tenses, twists, finds it entirely futile as he’s snared by his shoulders, lifted enough for him to flail his legs, for the shorts to be peeled off of him and discarded, “I don’t really want to.”

One of the men laughs, says something in his rough language to the others and Will finds himself lowered, to his knees, though he tries to draw those up to cover himself. Three men proves move than Will can yet handle, too many limbs to coordinate, too many bodies to aim for and too easy to miss. He squirms, finds a hand sharp against his backside and yelps at the spank, settling for a moment, moving as he is moved.

“Going to spread you wide,” one of the men tells him, purrs it against his ear as Will pretends to cringe, tries to work his wrists free again. “Fill every hole you have till you’re dripping with it, you’ll look so pretty.”

Will shakes his head, feels his hair snared and his head lifted, eyes flying open to watch the first man, the main one, step closer and press his clothed erection against Will’s lips.

“You’re gonna open up,” he tells him, hands up to work the fly, the button, as Will watches him with wide, blue eyes. “Be good, and we’ll touch you so nice you’ll mewl for it.” Will swallows, shivers as he feels the thick heavy head of the man’s cock against his bottom lip. “But if you’re bad -”

“I’ll be good,” Will promises quickly.

He hears the zippers fall around him, the susurrus of fabric coming free and skin against skin, as the man in front of him pushes against his lips again, trailing a line of precum from the tip of his cock. “Open up then like a good boy,” the man tells him, an edge underlying his words, sharp - hard. A tone that isn’t a request, but an assurance that there will be punishment if Will doesn’t do as he’s told.

As Will’s lips part and his tongue unfurls, an inexpert pose that makes the man moan, he wonders what kind of punishment the three of them might be able to dole out. When his mouth is full, stuffed thick with twitching, sweat-salty cock, and he feels a hand glide over his ass, between his checks, rubbing fingertips against his opening, Will figures he’s going to find out.

A glance is spared, briefly towards Hannibal who has finished the coffee Will made, and sits with hands folded onto the soft sweater in his lap. He smiles, sly, when their eyes meet and lifts his chin, watching as Will’s mouth is violated, and now - as he chokes on a thrust - fucked.

 _Beautiful boy_ mouths Hannibal to him, nearly slipping into a laugh when Will’s watering eyes sharpen at him.

Will finds the violation easy enough to take, his mouth and ass both, thighs trembling as he’s fingered roughly until he moans. It’s all easy enough. Even when a third set of hands - those not holding his hair and chin, spreading his ass or holding his wrists - starts to pinch his nipples again, twist and rub them, slide down his stomach to gather his cock and stroke him.

He shivers and moans, closes his eyes and summons tears enough to wet the lashes. A little boy stolen, taken, ripped to pieces all because he wanted a bed to sleep in.

Woe.

He tries to speak, mumbled words that draw spit down his chin and a tightening of fingers in his hair. He pretends he wants it to stop, pretends he hates that the man behind him adds a third finger and shoves deep into his ass, he pretends to hate it when another hand curls tight beneath the head of his cock and strokes just the head with his thumb. He dredges up a sob from his throat, curls his fingers, trembles.

He is a sight to behold, as his legs are spread further, held apart as his cock is allowed mercy for the moment, and the fingers disappear from his ass. Will knows what’s coming, when his wrists are released immediately sets his hands to the floor and scrabbles against it, tries to garner mercy of the man before him, and finds he is only granted the chance to breathe so they can hear the sounds he makes when the man behind him lifts his hips and pushes in.

Sounds are easy.

Sounds are fucking fun.

So he whimpers, a loud, high thing he allows to tremble on his lips before he sucks the bottom one into his mouth and sobs. “Stop, please stop, I don’t… it hurts, please -”

His toes curl as his ankles are pressed to the floor, he shakes his head from the hand that settles beneath his chin to lift it again. On a whim, as the fucking grows boring, commonplace and dull, Will turns his head and catches a finger between his teeth, biting enough to hurt, enough for the man to yank his hand back with a curse.

When he catches Hannibal’s eyes this time, his eyes he keeps deliberately wide and innocent before the slap comes. Then he closes them and starts to cry in earnest.

Distantly, he hears a growl - just a low rumble of disapproval - from where Hannibal sits watching. He supposes it’s fair - he’s violated one of their unspoken rules of these things, by surprising Will with this, and so Will is violating one of Hannibal’s rules as well. Tears slick hot down his cheeks, spit down his chin, a childish choking breath before Will wails as if in agony and his little hands curl into fists. His skin flushes hot, blotchy and red across his cheeks, lips scarlet from the rough abuse, and Hannibal remains motionless in his observation as another cock, yet ungratified, is pushed against Will’s mouth instead.

“No,” he begs, but the plea does little more than open his mouth enough for the man to force his length into it.

Will’s shoulders heave as he chokes, a wet clicking sound from deep in his throat. Hands spread and scratch and pinch along the pale pink skin, his nipples and his cheeks, his ass and his cock, forcing his knees against the hard tile floor. He lifts a hand to try to shove the man back who fucks deep into his mouth, nails curling enough to scratch, and his hair is yanked brutally in punishment for it, head held in place so that his mouth can be used as much as his ass.

He is empty for only a moment before another man forces himself into Will’s ass with a groan and a curse, unrelenting as he fucks the boy with no more lube than a mouthful of spit dripped crude onto his opening.

It isn’t long before Will feels a familiar twitch, stiffening, from the cock in his mouth. He chokes again, truly this time, when hot cum stripes against the back of his throat, hardly enough time to swallow before another man - the one who was in him before, perhaps, another, it hardly matters fills his mouth again.

And Hannibal’s smile widens, consummately pleased as Will in every way is the sweet child turned over to animal lusts and cruel hands. Shaking and sobbing, entirely an act, but convincing enough to even Hannibal who despite knowing Will’s skill in conveying whatever his abusers want him to be. He skims a thumb along the front of his trousers, legs crossed to hide his own erection, but a gentle stroke goes unseen by all but Will, blue eyes wide and wet when they turn to Hannibal.

Will is had until he loses his voice, until he makes them believe he has, sweat-slicked and covered in spit and cum. Hannibal can see him tensing, the familiar twitch to suggest he’s growing impatient, gathering his strength and about to change his tactics to turn from sweet little boy to cruel little thing.

His mouth is freed again and Will lets his head collapse between his arms, tears and spit and filth dripping to the tile between his hands. He sobs, takes a breath and swallows, yelps when he’s tugged back and forced to his elbows as the one man still hard, having held off from dirtying the boy’s mouth, fucks into him deeper.

Will coils, shudders, makes plaintive little noises that are just barely masking the delightful sounds of pleasure his entire body is trying to release. He is fucked, hard, a very rough taking that Hannibal watches with slowly narrowing eyes as Will’s fingers curl and relax, curl and relax and tighten when he feels his own orgasm come close.

“You do like it, dirty little thing, look at you, little cock so hard.”

Will whines, orgasm held at bay by a rough hand tight around him.

“You wanna cum, huh? You wanna cum so we can make you do it again?”

“I can’t do it again,” Will sobs. “I don’t want to, I don’t - please -”

Another sharp slap to his ass and the men laugh, clear enough where their enjoyment will come from once Will is spent and they recover for another round.

“Lying little boys will feel the belt,” one of the men purrs, flexing his fingers before moving to pull his own from its loops, “and you are being very naughty with your lies.”

Will watches, eyes raised to the loop of leather, as behind him, the final man pushes his release into him, and then Will turns his eyes to Hannibal, entirely too pleased by the fact that when he’s released to fall to the floor, he has cum dripping down his legs.

“Hold his legs up, we’ll teach him what it means to lie, especially when his little cock so hard still.”

“Maybe he’ll cum from it?”

“Masochistic little shit, you think?”

Will squirms as he’s rearranged, legs up almost against his ears before he seeks out with his hands, grabs one man by his leg and shoves the heel of his hand against the back of his knee, causing him to curse, loudly, and fall heavily to the floor. The belt falls, his legs released in surprise.

And that’s all he needs, really.

A little hand snatches up the belt, shoves the end through the buckle, and he lassoes it around the fallen man’s throat, kicking a heel into his diaphragm to double him over and knock the wind from him. It gives Will the leverage he needs to yank the belt tight and the man’s face goes scarlet, held at bay by Will’s foot and unable to do anything more than try to dig the leather away from his skin.

One man stands dumbstruck, but the other shakes it enough to pull Will’s hair hard enough to rip a snarl out of the boy. This, too, an unintended gift, as Will reaches with his free hand to grab the man’s hand by the meat of his thumb, and with a quick downward jerk of his arm, breaks his elbow. An instant of silence, just a moment in which Will’s grin finally breaks free, before the man screams and falls to his knees in shock, time bought here for Will to regard the third man, standing stock still and terrified.

Despite the dark fury in his eyes, from Will - taunting, flagrant - breaking rules that have earned him the basement before, Hannibal can’t resist the sight of this, his glorious little wolf, vicious and cruel with spite. He uncrosses his legs, elegant even despite how savagely hard he’s become, and folds his hands against his lap to work a steady pressure against himself with his wrist, eminently discreet despite there being absolutely no need for it.

Sobs and wails from the man who tries to support his limp and useless arm. Choking, wet noises from the man with the belt around his neck whose air grows shorter and shorter by the heartbeat. And a breath, harsh, from the remaining man who had been the last to join in.

Hannibal grins as the man turns to bolt.

Will’s eyes just narrow, the man beneath him jerking, now, twitching in his last moments of living as Will holds himself entirely still above him. He gives it a second, another, hears the other man hit the front door, curse at the locks, try the kitchen instead, and Will releases the belt, the man dead beneath him and he’s on his feet to chase the last one down.

Hannibal leans back, enough to see to the corridor, to hear the sounds of struggle. A punch, another, a dull strike to skin but no sound to follow - Will’s past sounds now, past pain, past much beyond the animal instinct to kill something. He has rarely found himself so entirely, blindly angry but it proves useful enough. Moments later, with a shuddering sob, pleas growing louder and louder, Will drags the man back by his hair, a knife in his other hand as he shoves him back into the room and lets him crawl around like a blinded animal.

He does not look at Hannibal, though he could, he is close enough that he could set the knife in his chest, done deal, but he doesn’t, he just watches the two remaining men struggle, draws a hand up to run his knuckles under his nose with a hum, regarding the blood there before flexing his fingers and stepping in further to the room.

“You know,” Will comments, voice rough, almost gone with how hard his throat had been abused. He sniffs, tongues a trickle of blood from his top lip and sinks to his knees on top of the man with the broken arm. “I really did end up liking it. But you need to work on your technique. Be less selfish in your fucking.”

The knife finds its mark in the man's stomach and Will twists it, enough for him to moan, jerk in pain, use his free hand to reach for Will, beg for mercy, but that comes to nothing beyond a long, deliberate slice from wrist to crook of elbow and Will just tilts his head watching the man bleed out before him.

The third he regards with a mere arch of his neck to bring his head back. He runs, again, inevitably, and Will sends the knife his way, strikes a wall the man is about to run past to stop him in shock.

“And you,” he sighs, brings a bloody hand up to rub over his face, “you are bloody fucking awful, how you get someone off is actually beyond me entirely, and thankfully no one else will have to suffer your pathetic attempts at a handjob again.”

How he moves is no longer human, too quick, too smooth, and entirely merciless as little hands come to rest beneath the man’s chin, around behind his head, and twist. It’s very quiet, suddenly, and Will lets out a quick huff of air to push a curl from his eyes before turning to Hannibal. The innocence is gone, the blatant animal hunger is gone. Will is still hard, bobbing up against his stomach, still greedy for more, wanting nothing more than to ride the man until he aches.

Instead he stumbles over the dead man, careful over the blood smeared over the tile, and comes to stand in front of Hannibal. A smile, gentle, little, and Will draws his hand back and sends his fist hard against Hannibal’s cheek.

“What. The ever. Loving. FUCK. Hannibal?”

Hannibal just stops himself from nearly ending up on the floor himself, a quick hand out against the table where Will’s empty coffee cup sits. He blinks, surprised by the strength of it, really, and works his jaw to ensure it’s still functional. It is, he’s pleased to discover, and his smile returns, placid and pleased, despite the hot copper taste of blood in his mouth.

“You were magnificent,” he murmurs.

It’s the wrong answer, and Will backhands, fist clenched, the other side of Hannibal’s face. Hannibal, though he could see it coming as if from miles away, does not stop it, and allows the strike to turn his head aside. He coughs, now, a quiet sound, and rather than swallowing he spits dark blood and saliva onto the tile floor.

Dark eyes lift but his head does not, willingly subservient to Will’s well-earned wrath but unwilling not to see him in his glory. Cum-spattered, spit-slick, streaked in gore and still hard enough that the head of his cock is a nearly purple scarlet where the skin has stretched back, he is - as ever - like a little Dionysus, blood-soaked and debauched.

“You’re beautiful,” Hannibal tells him, as he allows his heart the freedom it needs to beat faster. “My little wolf.”

Will’s eyes narrow, breath dragging between his teeth. His blood screams for more, the feeling of electricity through his nerves, the need for more pain of his own as he causes pain to the man before him. He hopes, as he watches the man’s cheek darken, that he broke it, then he would fucking remember.

He reaches to wrap his fingers in Hannibal’s tie, yank him forward until he catches his weight on his knees on the floor.

“I should strangle you with your own fucking trappings,” Will hisses, works his fingers into the knot to pull it free. Hannibal opens his mouth to praise him again, bring any worship to this creature before him that he can and finds another sharp slap in rebuke instead before the loose tie is wrapped around his eyes instead, tight enough to be uncomfortable.

“What the fuck gives you the right, what the fuck, Hannibal.” Will’s voice is almost helpless, higher, now, in his displeasure and disbelief, still so angry at him, though he does not hit him again. “You just sold me to three fucking men, you fucking sold me.”

“Exquisite boy -”

“Do not -” Will takes a breath, presses his tongue between his teeth, “do not touch me, do not praise me, just… fuck.”

He steps back, feet sticking to the bloody floor, and leaves the room. He doesn’t care for the footprints he leaves behind on his way to the stairs, does not care about those on them.

“Will.” He doesn’t slow down for his name, doesn’t stop when he hears Hannibal follow him. “Will, you’re tracking blood all over the house.”

“Then CLEAN IT THE FUCK UP!” Will yells, slamming the door to their room behind himself, turning the key in the lock and padding to the bathroom.

Hannibal holds his breath for a long moment, as silence resounds in the wake of Will’s wrath, and not until he hears the water start does he sigh again. Little footprints all across the white-carpeted stairs, over the rug - deliberately so - in the sitting room, darkening as Hannibal follows them back to the room used for entertaining guests, where blood pools wide across the Travertine tile.

It’s the first time they’ve used this room for it’s intended purpose, Hannibal realizes, but the moment of pleasure in the thought fades as he realizes that the blood is going to stain the grout between the tiles.

“Ungrateful boy.”

It takes the whole morning, and well into the afternoon, before Hannibal has finished his penance. He tends the carpets first, before the blood can set too long, leaving them to soak with cleaner before he carries the bodies downstairs, one by one, considering that perhaps next time he will try to find slightly smaller men than these. More manageable spots of blood first, and then a thorough mopping of the pools coagulating black against the tile, another round of cleaner to try and lighten the grout again - which may need to be replaced, he realizes with a miserable hum - before he returns to the carpets.

Those, at least, have whitened agreeably.

The last necessary bit of cleaning, as he takes up the empty mug and the sweater, back aching from the work and jaw swollen enough that he chooses not to speak, is the knife in the wall. His twelve-inch, hand-forged Japanese chef’s knife.

In the wall.

Of course.

He can see without even touching it how the plaster would pock and dent the finish, the tip blunted from impact, and can only imagine what bones Will scraped up against before he threw it that nicked the blade itself. Hannibal regards it with a sigh, and in a moment of whimsy, decides to leave it where it is for now.

There is silence from upstairs and Hannibal returns the mug to the kitchen, setting a fresh pot of coffee to brew as he attends himself in the guest bathroom. Careful fingers test the depth of swelling, indigo bruises darkening both sides of his face, but - and he’ll have to correct Will on his aim at a later, less angry point - nothing broken. He washes the blood from his face and ensures that no teeth have been loosened either, and content enough that it looks worse than it is, he returns to the kitchen to gather up a towel of ice for his face, a cup of coffee for the boy, and Will’s sweater.

Almost polite, he knocks on the bedroom door.

“I’ve brought you coffee, and returned your dreadful sweater to you. May I come in?”

Will turns his head to the door, still locked, though he had taken the time to clean the blood off of it and the handle, off of the carpet as much as his limited resources had allowed. He lies clean, now, entirely naked, bruises blooming on his skin, with the wide windows flung open to send the white curtains shifting.

He thinks of how he had wanted to spend his morning reading, curled up outside with his book, with his coffee, waiting for Hannibal to come home so he could crawl all over him and feel himself deliciously filled. But no. No, Hannibal had had to come home with three fucking -

“No,” he drawls towards the door, turning to look up at the ceiling again. “I don’t want coffee and you have long wanted to destroy my dreadful sweater so by all means.”

This is the first time he has held Hannibal outside of this room, locked, blatantly, out of it while he himself stayed within. He finds it’s highly amusing to him to do it, wonders who of them would cave first, and either unlock the door or break it down. For now, he is contented to make Hannibal understand the depth of his displeasure.

“Will.”

“There are six spare rooms, Hannibal, I’m sure you can accommodate yourself.”

“I wish to accommodate you,” Hannibal answers, head pressed against the door, and he can’t help but smile a little - and then wince, when he does - when he hears Will snort from inside.

“I’ve been accommodated three times already today, thanks.”

“And still wanting,” the older man reminds him.

“Took care of myself in the shower.”

This gives Hannibal pause, clenches his teeth and he chokes down a curse at the pain of doing so. Minutes tick by in silence, and Hannibal says, “Your coffee is getting c-”

“Fuck. Off. Hannibal.” Lip curling in displeasure against his teeth, Hannibal’s fingers tighten around the mug, and it’s as if in the moment of silence, Will can scent and taste Hannibal’s unhappiness through the door. “You don’t like that, do you? Having your stupid fucking boundaries cursed all over. Fuck you and fuck off, I’m not letting you in.”

“Enough, Will.”

“No,” Will exclaims, and the bed creaks as he shifts off of it, to come nearer the other side of the door. “You don’t get to decide - now, _now_ , after you fucking sold my ass to three fucking men - that it’s ‘enough’.”

“A learning experience,” murmurs Hannibal. “And one in which you succeeded remarkably well.”

"Then I shall enjoy my victory and well-learned lesson. Alone." Will sets his hand against the door, considers letting Hannibal in, wants, suddenly to curl into his arms and be adored, praised, loved. 

He knows he won't be, as he keeps angering him, disobeying.

"I have no desire to see you right now, Hannibal. I feel filthy and I want to retain the rest of my day that you stole without word or warning. You can either sulk by the door or do something like an adult. Honestly, I couldn't care less."

Will sighs, nuzzles the door and steps back.

Hannibal has, in all their time together, never known Will to be so angry. Jealous, certainly, vindictive, absolutely, but never _angry_. Never so hurt. He keeps his forehead against the door a moment more, and considers how easily it could be removed from its hinges to allow him inside, and for the sake of his aching muscles - and Will’s desires - he decides against it.

He sets the coffee down by the door, folds the sweater neatly beside it, and returns the ice to his cheek. His fingers splay against the door and he says softly, “You were breathtaking, little wolf. Taking what they gave, playing the part of another, fighting and killing as if it were the most effortless part of all.” Hannibal swallows, roughly, and sighs.

“I do love you,” he reminds him, before he leaves Will to his space.

Will knows.

He spends most of the day dozing, curled in a ball in bed. The hurt passes quickly, of Hannibal being entirely inconsiderate, entirely selfish and cruel and the desire returns, of how he had been adored, how Hannibal had allowed him to strike him, how he had not taken his eyes off of him.

He aches for the man, turns to rub himself against the sheets with soft groans, resisting the urge to cum, waiting for Hannibal to return again.

And he does, when it’s dark, another soft knock on the door and a calling of his name, and Will turns on his side to look at the door, lip between his teeth.

"No."

"Let me in."

"Fuck off, Hannibal." And the tone is so different, so playful now, and Will grins, rubbing himself with one hand.

"Insufferable," Hannibal sighs, and Will swallows, buries his face against the pillow with a grin, hides a laugh. He says nothing more, waits, and moments later there is a clatter and the door shifts, just a little, and Will stifles a laugh against the sheets.

"Don't, fuck -"

The door shifts again, hinges taken apart as Will continues his squirming, one eye to the door, face down in bed and so, so turned on.

Screw by screw is carefully removed, set into his pocket, from the bottom of one door first, and slowly from the top. It takes time, the other door left unmolested, but finally Hannibal catches the heavy wood in his hands. He lifts it and sets it against the wall, and takes up his glass of whiskey again, poured straight, and stand looming in the doorway.

His shoulders block out much of the light from down the stairs, casting his broad figure in shadow from where Will watches him, fist working between his body and the sheets. Hannibal's face is swollen, visibly even from where Will lays, and he takes a careful sip before stepping nearer.

"You overstep your bounds, little wolf." His voice is low, slurred from the swelling in his jaw, but lacking in genuine rancor. Playing at predation, rather than at hunt, but it's enough to send a wonderful chill across Will's skin. "To keep me from my belongings. To keep me from my room. To keep me from you, as much mine as everything else in this room."

 

"And," Hannibal adds with a sigh, "your language, Will." He tsks, and sips his scotch again, setting a knee to the bed.

Will shivers, pleasant little motions as he frees his hand and flexes his fingers against the sheets. He pushes himself up, stretches, reaches for the scotch and finds it given. He takes a sip, savors it, gives it back, sits higher to gently touch Hannibal’s face.

"Did I break it?" He asks, finds the hiss and gentle turn of Hannibal’s head to be his answer.

"I should teach you how to break a bone, intolerable boy. Teach you to aim. Tie you to the bed and give you a proper lesson."

Will bites his lip and trembles, turns to sit against his thigh. He wonders if Hannibal has been drinking all day, wonders if he slept at all. He has missed him, a lot. Despite the anger and displeasure he has missed the man's rough hands, his voice.

"When the hell did you learn Albanian?" Will asks him, smiling, turning to rest on his back again, knees up, thighs splaying in a languid stretch.

"In my free time," Hannibal answers, unhelpfully. He finishes his scotch in a long pull and hisses a long sigh between his teeth. The glass clicks against the nightstand, and he turns to regard Will over his shoulder. Carved cheekbones less sharp now, dark shadows unmoving where his face has bruised. "Was learning Arabic, only, enough for you?" He adds, a dry tease.

He brings a leg up onto the bed, and spreads a hand along Will's chest, without asking if he wishes to be touched, without asking if he's yet forgiven. Fingers spread and curl scraping rough shivers from his boy, and Hannibal hums.

"I should beat you until you sob," Hannibal sighs. "For me, this time," he adds, a snarl curling his voice that fades as soon as it appears. He has missed Will absurdly, obsessively despite being only a floor apart. Despite a half-bottle of scotch throughout the day and more than his share of controlled painkillers. Hannibal has not slept. He has not settled. He has not rested. Every moment has been consumed with thoughts of Will's anger, and concerns - truly - of whether Hannibal had finally crossed an irreparable line.

Both legs drawing onto the bed, Hannibal turns to his side with a grimace and curls alongside Will, to pull the boy against him. "When the hell did you learn to throw a knife?" He asks, bringing his nose against Will's temple to breathe him in and be filled by him.

"In my free time," Will tells him, nuzzling close and smiling, drawing an arm over Hannibal, a leg against his hip. "You can beat me till I bleed, but next time fucking warn me when you want to watch me have an orgy and pretend to hate it."

He hums, nuzzles slowly against the older man, closes his eyes to the sheer simple pleasure of reminding himself of the way Hannibal feels against him. He loves him, missed him all day and now breathes in the sweat, the alcohol and the exhaustion from him.

He takes Hannibal’s hand and slowly directs it down between his legs, moaning quietly and rocking up into his palm.

"I was really fucking angry," Will tells him, "but damn if it wasn't the hottest thing... you giving me up... watching me taken... adoring the claim after."

"Language." But Hannibal seems far from upset at the count Will is racking up against him.

"Don't fucking care," he sighs, laughing quietly. "I missed my whipping earlier today." He presses a kiss to his neck and gently bites the skin. "And I missed you so much. Don't make me lock you out again."

Hannibal hums, wide hand curling hot around Will's length. Velvety skin pulled taut and twitching across his pulse, Hannibal traces the thick vein beneath with his thumb, slips it up against his frenulum, and rubs firmly beneath the leaking slick head of his cock.

"Perhaps I should have given you forewarning," Hannibal admits. "I wished for the surprise, in truth, to see how you would respond without chance to prepare. Without even opportunity for your adrenaline to spike in anticipation. To see you, caught off-guard and overwhelmed, and watch you overcome." He tilts his nose against Will's cheek, and whispers, "I know you would. I did not anticipate that you would do so with such extraordinary grace."

"Beautiful," Hannibal praises him, spanning his fingers lower to curl against Will's balls, teasing across the wrinkled skin before taking him in hand again. "You were stunning, Will. Spread and used and made filthy, and oh, little wolf, they thought you destroyed. They mistook your beauty for weakness and knew not the ferocity that coils inside of you. And you showed them, my Will, you showed them the payment owed for satisfying themselves upon you. You showed them the debt that must be paid for touching what is mine."

He means every word of it, just as much as he did before when spitting blood against the floor he took in the length of his mad boy-god in all his splendor. But Will's fury still sings in every pulse through Hannibal's own bruises, and he tucks his nose against Will's neck. "You are mine, are you not?"

Will shivers against him, eyes still closed and pleasure twisting in his belly, lower still. He adores it, the way Hannibal’s voice turns almost liquid with the alcohol, the pain. He lets himself be touched, moans his pleasure, makes it as known as he had his displeasure hours before - and it had only been hours, he cannot summon up the anger again, even as he tries.

“I’m yours,” Will replies, contented, warm, biting his lip and letting it go again, “yours to give and watch and praise after, yours to break the house for, to remind of this.” Will’s lips part on another helpless little noise and he presses them to Hannibal’s throat.

“Do you want to beat me?” Will asks, breathless, “do you want me to bend over and take what you wish to take out on me? Beg for more of it until my words come gasped and wet?”

He would, right then, anything Hannibal asked, take any pain, any endurance, just to have him to curl up on after.

"Yes," Hannibal answers. He wants to feel Will bend and yield for him. He wants to watch his boy present for him and claim him until he smells like his own again. He wants to press into him until his eyes shine with tears and they cling sparkling to his lashes, and Will sobs for him alone.

He wants, and he will have, but for now he tucks his forehead to Will's and kisses him, gently. "But now, I want to see you have your pleasure," Hannibal murmurs against his mouth, "and know that you saved it only for me."

His thumb pressing against the slit of Will's cock, fingers tightening beneath the head, Hannibal whispers, "Let me show how much I adore you, little wolf."

Will’s lips part, eyes barely open, and he makes those sweet, tiny little sounds that mean so much more than when he loses his voice screaming. He lies back, body vulnerable and presented, beautiful and warm, and takes the pleasure Hannibal wants to give him. He had, in truth, vindictively, jerked off in the shower earlier that day, but it was for no reason other than to tell Hannibal he had, to have defied him in that way as well. But now his body sings for the rough hands against him, for the man’s lips to press to his own, his cheek, his jaw and throat and lower down.

He makes himself make it last, trembling already and spreading himself, but holding back on his own pleasure so he can show it to Hannibal, the tightness of his muscles, the way they pull beneath pale skin.

Another sweet little moan and Will bites his lip, one hand up to press against his eyes as he releases it with a sigh, squirms against Hannibal’s hands, and finally cums, body jerking with his release though it comes quiet. Breathless, infinitely pleased, Will reaches for Hannibal, grasping sweaty fingers, to curl in his hair and over his face where he is not so bruised, not so damaged.

“Just for you,” Will gasps, smiling, “all of them, every single one, just for you.”

The words, and the sweet warmth of them, does more to ease Hannibal's aches than all the opiates and scotch that he's had all day. His hand warm and wet, he brings it to his lips and breathes in the earthy, animal scent of his boy, feeling his heart settle as he tastes, too, to know in the most primal way that Will is here.

That Will loves him.

That Will forgives him.

Dark eyes open again and Hannibal watches Will from so near, as content as the boy himself with no need for his own satisfaction beyond what Will now has given him.

Hannibal wonders if, perhaps, he hasn't had too many painkillers today to be so relaxed.

Hannibal supposes that it doesn't truly matter.

He snares Will into his arms and hugs him near, burying his nose into Will's soft curls and breathing him in deeply. "Tomorrow," Hannibal sighs, "every curse, every strike, will be paid for threefold. And your time, you owe to me, for spending the day dismantling your victims." He draws a long breath, and sighs it out softly. "Mine," he murmurs. "Entirely my own."


End file.
